


All Those Lucky Boys

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [13]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, M/M, Making Out, No Smut, References to Depression, Rey Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Hux is alone on Christmas until someone who is absolutely a stranger and not at all someone he's been living vicariously through by eavesdropping on conversations at a cafe they both happen to frequent happens to come upon him drinking alone.





	All Those Lucky Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Marked mature for depression related angst bc my perspective is a little skewed right now and I wanted to make sure it was covered, as well as for semi-anonymous amorous adventures in bathrooms. Cover your eyes, children, this is a kissing story.
> 
> Originally posted to twitter, cleaned up enough to make everything in the same verb tense because let me tell you things got a little hairy there for a minute.
> 
> Enjoy Ben Solo being an absolute fucking brat.

Hux watches people passing by on the snowy sidewalk outside while his drink chills on the counter in front of him. His knees are cold, pressed to the window glass. His eyes burn, nose itches, sinuses tight and heavy with the effort of holding himself together. He hates the holidays. He's been teetering on the edge of something for weeks now, feeling overwhelmed and angry and empty in a way that he can't quite put his finger on. There's a laundry list of reasons, he knows that. But they've all blurred together into _life, everything._

He sniffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a sip of the cooling espresso. He makes a face, drink gone bitter, and pushes it away. The bells on the door jingle and a pair of customers tumbles out, giggling and teasing each other. He's seen them here before. They're regulars just like he is.

The girl has a tremendous appetite. She talks about travelling and eating every so-called bizarre food she can get her hands on. She dreams about becoming a chef _and_ a pilot _and_ a robotics engineer _and_ a travel photographer. She's a student. She's smart. She has a boyfriend who she loves very much.

The man who accompanies her is her brother. Hux isn't entirely sure what he does. It seems like he does everything and nothing. Hux thinks mechanical inclinations must run in the family. The man always seems to have dirty nails, like he's got the black residues of working on engines embedded in his skin right along with the vibrant ink that covers his arms and throat.

Hux has never spoken to the pair. He listens over coffee and pastries. He pretends that, if quantum theory is true, in some other universe _Other Hux_ is as happy and loved as the pair of siblings seem. _Other Hux_ might even speak to the charismatic siblings rather than simply observe them from afar. What a novelty that would be.

The snow on the ground has mostly turned to slush from pedestrians laden with packages tromping over it. It's the last weekend before Christmas, the Eve-Eve as Hux so often hears it irritatingly called. The girl moves ahead of her brother, sinking ankle deep and beginning to fall. She hangs frozen in the air for a second and he catches her. With his arms hooked under hers, he plows her forward. Her heavy boots shuck the slush from their path to the corner to her mixed horror and delight. She shrieks and laughs and tells him he's a monster. He makes a wounded face and pretends to drop her, catching her again swiftly. Someone across the street waves at them and they shout greetings back.

When the light changes, a petite woman and a tall, greyed man cross over. The tattooed probably-mechanic embraces them and takes the packages they are carrying. Their parents, Hux supposes. Though he's never seen them before, it's undeniable. The man appears to be the perfect median on a slider between their features.

Hux waits for the family to disappear, the girl sandwiched cozily in the middle of the pack. He slips his coat on and drops his unfinished drink into the trash bin as he walks out and heads in the opposite direction. Going out had been a mistake. Hux had hoped the fresh air and the nice stretch for his legs would make him feel better. Sitting alone in his shitty apartment watching reruns of true crime shows was doing him no good. His phone was quiet, computer quieter. He would have killed for a work email to distract himself with. Social media was dead, although it wasn't as if he was active anyway.

He's been filled with a sense of longing dread the last several days. It was the trappings of the holiday, really, that made all of the murk in his gut and his head bubble uncomfortably. He had plans! But that was the problem. They weren't his. They were plans foisted on him by the few people who hovered in his life like charmingly belligerent satellites. They meant well, he supposed. But he'd rather be alone than sit a someone else's family party feeling the full force of his solitariness.

"You're family, we want you," they say every year.

Hux knows though. It's hard not to. They invite him because they pity him.

The first year had been genuine, maybe. But now it's out of some kind of unspoken obligation. They know that he is alone. It is not as if that's any different from any other day of the year, but on Christmas it is suddenly disallowed.

Hux feels like a burden. He sits and smiles and eats and drinks and then quietly excuses himself, pretending that he must get himself to midnight mass. He's not sure if they realize it's a lie or not. It's the day after, the holiday-proper, that's the worst. He wakes up alone. Has breakfast alone. There's no exchange of gifts or embraces or kisses. He has dinner alone, and a drink. He crawls into his empty bed and sleeps.

Same as any other day, but somehow worse.

Hux spends the Eve-Eve wandering around the city on foot. It's after sundown when he realizes he's lightheaded and hungry. He makes his way back home, stopping at the bakery to pick up the boxes of pastries he ordered. He'll bring them to the party, just like every year. He'll leave before the boxes are opened, just like every year.

He settles in for the night, feet sore from all his aimless walking, with left-over takeout for one and his menace of a cat curled beside him.

The party is as miserable as he anticipated it would be. People ask him about work, about his family. The same people ask the same questions each year. They don't care, they're just being polite to the stranger in their midst. Much earlier than usual, Hux needs to leave. He feels like he is on the edge of tears. He knows they're coming. He won't be able to stop them if they do, he knows that, too. No one is speaking to him directly. He is on the fringes of a conversation about the newest _Doctor_. He excuses himself and searches out his coat on the pile in the guestroom.

"Hey!" he hears and freezes with the coat pulled out half way, tugging on the sleeve. "You can't leave now, Hux, dinner's hardly over."

Dopheld's face is open and earnest. Hux rambles the first thing that comes to mind -- he doesn't feel well. Dopheld accepts it without question. He offers to make up a plate for Hux to take home that Hux declines. He thanks Doph for he invitation and wishes him a happy holiday.

Hux feels like he can breathe again when he is behind the wheel of his car, fleeing from the suburbs back to the city. He can't go home to to cat and the empty house, he can't. The notion makes him sick. He's pulling into a space in front of the bar before he knows it, hands in a death-grip on the wheel.

Of course it's open, it's Christmas Eve. Even if most places weren't hosting overpriced parties, this quiet little space is a refuge. He's never seen the lights go out save for the hour or so around three in the the morning, when they get around local ordinances about twenty-four hour service. The clientele is more Hux's speed than anyplace else. Not really popular with the young, college-age crowd or with the professional set. It's quiet, sober -- if you could describe a bar that way -- full of people who need a moment away, a moment alone. The conversation is subdued, music quiet enough that no one needs to shout to be heard. Two people can speak comfortably over beers, only the crack of pool balls occasionally interrupting. There isn't any seasonal music playing and Hux is grateful for it. With the jukebox out of service, the bartender has control over the digital selection and has stuck the play button on a Big Band station.

Hux orders a bourbon, neat, then makes it a double. He sits at the counter, sipping unreasonably slowly. He wants to make it last, to enjoy the mellow burn in the back of his throat and the smokey scent under his nose. The bartender leaves him in his cloud of funk and he likes that just fine. Each time someone comes and goes, the cold air from outside rushes into the place. The tendrils of it creep up the back of Hux's sweater and it feels like a cruel joke the universe is playing. His eyes sting. He clenches his teeth, trying desperately to hold everything back. He covers his face with both hands and shudders. A small, wet sob slips past.

"Are you okay?"

"Excuse me?" Hux scrubs his hands over his face, pushes his hair back.

"I asked if you were okay?" Hux hiccups and nods, apologizes. "No need to say you're sorry. Do you mind if I sit here?"

Hux looks up, finally, and notices that the only remaining seat at the counter is the one he'd left between himself and the nearest person. "No, of course, sit."

He straightens up, back cracking and shoulders popping from holding his body so tensely.

"Dropped like thirty degrees out there in ten minutes, I swear."

A riot of color fills Hux's peripheral vision, a wrist and hand exposed when his new neighbor waves for the bartender. The person orders a bourbon as well, naming one of the lower-shelf brands. Hux turns, begins to suggest something that tastes less like turpentine, and blanches. His new neighbor isn't new at all. He thanks the bartender and swirls the swill in his glass around the ice before he takes a sip. He grimaces and then grins into the glass like it's some kind of private joke. He takes his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the counter, taps out a message and sips again.

"Do I know you?" He asks Hux, temple propped against his fist. "You look so familiar."

"No, I don't think so." Hux says, clearing his throat when his voice is too rough. "Maybe I just have one of those faces."

The man with the cheap drink squints at him, scrutinizing. "Do you go to the cafe on Terrace?"

Hux's stomach drops. The man laughs.

"I do know you! You sit in the window all the time."

Hux purses his lips, feigning ignorance. "Do you go in with a girl? Wears her hair up in a couple of loops."

The man smiles and nods and offers his hand. His nails are scrubbed perfectly clean. His fingers are long and thick to match the broadness of his hand. Its warm and calloused when Hux shakes it.

"That's my sister, Rey. I'm Ben." He waits, expectantly, hand still gripping Hux's amiably.

"Hux."

"That's a cool name."

"Well, it's Armitage. But I don't think anyone's called me that in thirty years."

"Last name then?" He nods. "I like Armitage, too. It's unique."

Hux isn't sure if Ben is trying to make small talk or what. It's awkward, he wants to down the rest of his drink and flee to his car. He's got a full tank, he could just drive all night. Look at the decorated businesses. Something. Anything.

"Hux, can I ask you something?"

"I suppose."

"Are you okay?"

"Of course I am."

Ben laughs softly and takes a sip of his drink, swirls the glass. It's obnoxious. Hux wants to grab his hand to stop him. "You're a terrible liar."

Hux laughs back at that, angry and bitter. Ben draws away just a little. "It's just that time of year. I'll be fine after the first week of January."

Ben huffs, sounding amused. "I know the feeling."

Hux feels his face flush with embarrassment. He isn't interested in false sympathy from a stranger. "Who's the liar now?" Ben frowns, the expression creasing the whole of his features. "I don't think I've ever seen you without a smile on your big, stupid face."

Ben's expression morphs into shock. Hux slaps his hand over his mouth, a little shocked himself. Ben takes a long sip of his drink and puts it back down on the counter just a touch too hard. "I'll credit that to feeling shitty about yourself and let it slide." They sit beside each other in silence for several tense moments until Ben breaks it. "So much for not knowing me."

"Well, your big stupid face is memorable," Hux mumbles into his glass. Ben snorts and calls the bartender over, asks for them to bring another round of whatever Hux was drinking. "That's not necessary," Hux says when a fresh drink is placed in front of him.

Ben shrugs and clinks the edge of his against Hux's. His brow lifted as he sipped, pink tip of his tongue gliding kittenishly between his lips.

"I'm hiding from my family," he says, staring across the bar to the sliver of his reflection visible on the backspalsh between the bottles. "Sometimes I feel like being alone might be the better option."

"You could have fooled me, you all looked perfectly happy yesterday afternoon."

Ben blushes and shakes his head. "You're kind of a creep, you know that?"

Hux laughs;  _really_ laughs. He feels like his chest might crack open. He can't catch his breath. His eyes water, salty and stinging. The bartender looks worried. Ben shrugs, broad shoulders coming right up to his ears. "I think I broke him."

"I'm sorry," Hux wheezes. He nods his thanks when the bartender wordlessly places a glass of water in front of him and gulps it down. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Ben speaks softly, his eyes gentle. "Even if you won't believe me, I think I have an idea."

As it turns out, Ben does do everything and nothing. Trust fund kid with a half-finished PhD in some obscure branch of art history, he builds cars for his bourgeois _friends_ with skills learned at his father's elbow and lives off of the small but steady income from working as a curator at some gallery Hux had never heard of.

"You probably wouldn't have," Ben says, almost snobbishly. "They've got a very specific clientele."

Hux lets his straw fall from his lips, long since having switched from liquor to soda, unwilling to subject himself to hangover. "I may be kind of a creep, but you're kind of an asshole."

Ben considers it for a moment and tells him he's probably right. "Asshole with a heart of gold, I'd like to think."

Ben asks him what he does and Hux cringes. The follow-up is always the same. _Oh, just like so-and-so!_

"Astrophysics," he grumbles into his Coke.

"No shit?" Ben says, voice high and curious. "Hux the rocket scientist."

Hux scoffs, "Not exactly."

Hux excuses himself. He feels strange. The lump of bad humor in his stomach is rolling around and he still feels like there is physical weight of his shoulders; but, somehow he also feels pulled back away from the cliff he's been standing on. He knows the reprieve is temporary. He makes his way to the restroom, trying to shake off the oddness of it all. He's washing his hands when the door opens.

"Who's the creep now?" He asks Ben's reflection as he moves past.

Ben rolls his eyes and hesitates. He stops and opens his mouth like he's going to speak then shuts it again. "Hux?"

"Yes?" He scrubs his hands under the drier then turns and looks at Ben expectantly. He can see the artery in Ben's neck thumping, the motion exaggerated by the curve of his tattoo's design there.

"Do you want to... do you -- would you wanna come back home with me? We have enough food to feed a damn army and no one is going to bed any time soon."

Hux gapes, both appalled and struck by the kindness of it. There isn't pity in Ben's manner. There is a sort of nervousness about him and Hux supposes that's reasonable. "No, Ben, I don't."

Ben chews his lips and shoves his hands into his pockets. He clears his throat. "Ok, that's fine. Just thought I'd offer." Hux tells him it was nice of him, but he should be heading home. He turns toward the door and starts to push it open. "One more thing? Do you -- maybe -- want to kiss me?"

Hux freezes, hand on the door. A flush of excited, embarrassed heat rolls from the top of his head down to his toes. He pivots on his heel and the swinging door wobbles on its hinges. He takes one, two long steps across the bathroom and catches Ben's face in his hands. He dives in like an overzealous teenager in a dark closet.

Ben giggles, high pitched and delicate, when Hux pulls back for a breath. "I guess that was a yes?"

"Uh-huh," Hux manages, covering Ben's mouth with his again and smothering whatever Ben had begun to say. He backs Ben against the counter, flanked by the sinks. Ben pulls away, grumbles that the seat of his pants is wet. The distress is short lived, soothed by another kiss -- slower deeper. Hux's hands are warm in the dense wave of Ben's hair. He tugs, Ben groans and digs his fingers into the flesh just above Hux's belt.

Hux breaks, panting, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. Ben's are bright, his own face rosy, too. "I have... I have to go."

Ben frowns, "Your ride going to turn into a pumpkin or something?"

Hux barks a laugh. Ben pulls him in again. His mouth is so soft, so warm. His lips are so active, expressive even though the kissing.

"This is so karking tacky." Hux laughs again, feeling a little drunk, though he knows he's not.

"Karking?" Ben questions, brows bunched in confusion.

"I was going to say corny and then I changed my mind. We're like a fucking _Lifetime_ movie -- tacky, cliche. The sad guy meets the love of his life at Christmas! They make out! Happily ever after!"

Ben's eyes sparkle with delightful cruelty. "Love of your life, huh?" Ben pats his cheek affectionately, smoothes his hair away from his forehead. "Is this the part where we run off and elope? I think there was a TV show like that."

Hux's stomach flips with embarrassed irritation. He's annoyed, the heat of the moment ruined. "I have to go."

Ben holds him there, tries for another peck that Hux dodges. "Hux, I'm sorry. Asshole, remember?"

He succeeds in pulling away and heads for the door. "Yeah, I remember."

He feels a tug on his sweater, hand on the door and ready to go. He turns, frown plastered on his face. Ben pulls him in, big arms wrapped around his waist. He kisses Hux, easy and slow like Hux can't remember being ever being kissed.

The door opens, smacking Hux's shoulder hard as someone comes through. "Oh, geeze! Sorry!" The person gasps in surprise.

Hux abandons the embrace, flustered. He's momentarily horrified by the fine strand of saliva that snaps between he and Ben, sticking to his chin. He scrubs at it with the back of his hand and shoulders his way out the door. "Sorry," he grumbles. "I have to leave."

He drives home with singular purpose and drops into bed still clothed, pausing only to step on the heels of his shoes to get them off. He lays in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling until he cannot hold his eyes open any longer. The first watery strains of light filtering through the spaces between the blinds are the last thing that he remembers before sleep finally takes him.

He dreams about warmth. He's  _Other Hux_ sitting at a table for more than one at the cafe on Terrace.

Christmas is quiet. The ache in his chest is there, the sour feeling in his stomach refuses to be tempered with any amount of milky tea. He orders dinner from an app and tips the delivery person far more than he's expected to. He watches the cat pounce on the mountain of mylar crinkles and high-bounce balls with feather tails that he'd produced when he finally trudged down the stairs well past noon. He sinks to the floor, flicking the string toy out and yanking it back when the cat catches it.

"What do you say, Millie? Will you try out that hideous banana bed tonight?" The cat meows like she's consenting to the idea and Hux bites his tongue. Carrying on a conversation with a cat is just too much. When he crawls back into his own bed, he wonders if Ben is still hiding somewhere from his family -- what he's even hiding from at all.

The morning after is business as usual. Still on holiday break there isn't much to do. Hux contemplates a new couch and a movie and settles for walking across town to the cafe when he can't make a solid choice. When he reaches the counter, his drink is already prepared. He accepts it with thanks and a smile and drops his change into the tip jar. He makes his way toward the counter at the window, his usual seat wide open and waiting for him.

Hux hesitates.

He turns and moves toward the back of the cafe. He slides into the banquette seating behind the tiny little circle of a table. Someone has left the local paper on the seat and he leafs through it while he drinks. The cafe is familiar and solid. The people coming and going around him and all of their conversation -- the clanking and hissing of the machines and the calls of the baristas -- it lets him pretend that he isn't so alone for just a little while. He is lost in an article about a home invasion under investigation when he distantly registers that someone is standing quite close to him. He startles when a gentle hand touches his.

"Sorry," the girl cringes. "I don't mean to bother you. You usually sit over there? By the window?"

Hux's heart hammers against his ribs. "Yes. Is something the matter?"

"I don't really know what this is about, but my idiot brother won't come do it himself." She pauses and looks over her shoulder. She sticks out her tongue. To Hux she says: "Would you like to come sit with us? He's lame, I know, but I gotta humor him." She shrugs and indicates the vague space of the seating area around them. Ben rises like a monolith out of the sea. He waves, shoulders rounded like he's been scolded for his foolishness.

Hux blushes, hard. "Alright," he stutters as he stands. He collects his drink and follows the girl.

"He promised to come with me to try the fried cricket dumplings at that pop-up market if I got you to come over, so really you're doing me a favor. I'm Rey, by the way." She holds out her hand to him when they reach the table.

"Hux," Ben says before he can answer for himself. Rey crinkles her nose, clearly annoyed that there is something she hasn't been told.

"Ben," Hux responds. "I think you owe someone a dumpling."

Ben grins impishly as they sit. A barista emerges from behind the counter and delivers a plate of warm croissants and butter, enough for three. "So," Ben says casually. "Astrophysics."

Rey rolls her eyes and tears into the flaky confection.

**Author's Note:**

> A shout out to everyone else feeling cripplingly lonely this season. I put all of my bad holiday feelings onto Hux's shoulders and I'm not sorry. This is probably ooc and I regret nothing. It made me feel better. Have it. 
> 
> [Title from Nat King Cole || The Little Boy that Santa Claus Forgot]() because that's a fuckin modern au Hux song if I ever heard one.


End file.
